


Dreadful Need In The Devotee

by scatteringmyashes



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Temporary Character Death, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29592858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteringmyashes/pseuds/scatteringmyashes
Summary: They fall and they fall and they fall. They say love is a battlefield, but if only it was that simple.Dimitri and Dedue search for a miracle. It would be nice if they found each other in the process. A reincarnation/soulmate AU.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9
Collections: Dimidue Big Bang 2021





	Dreadful Need In The Devotee

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [careful fear, dead devotion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20465192) by [akhikosanada](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akhikosanada/pseuds/akhikosanada). 



> Here it is folks! I have had this in my head for a really long time and I'm super excited to share the fic! Dimitri and Dedue are two of my favorite characters in FE3H and I love them a whole lot... even if I'm constantly putting them through pain. But I promise that things end happily! 
> 
> If things go as planned, the second chapter will be out next month.
> 
> This fic also contains art by the ever amazing [RequiemPluie.](https://twitter.com/RequiemPluie) I was super happy working with them and you should check them out!!! 
> 
> As a last note, this fic was heavily inspired by akhikosanada's Careful Fear, Dead Devotion. If you're a fan of Sylvix, I strongly encourage you to check it out! She's an amazing writer and it's one of my favorite Sylvix fics of all time.
> 
> **This fic contains temporary character death, discussions of mental illness, several moments of unreality/a psychotic break, canon-typical violence, discussions of and brief depictions of genocide, mentions of homophobia, mentions of period-typical racism, and one scene where a character attempts suicide and fails.**
> 
> **Everyone ends up happy and safe, it just takes a bit to get there. Please exercise caution and self-care if necessary!**

**PART ONE - ORPHEUS**

**FRAGMENT 0**

"Dedue," Dimitri asks, licking his chapped lips as he searches for the right turn of phrase, "what's your favorite memory?" 

They are seventeen and eighteen, thirty-three and thirty-four, timeless beings but young and old alike. They have lived this moment a hundred times, a thousand times, never, and they will live it a hundred times, a thousand times more. 

"I do not know," Dedue half-lies, because he cannot quite remember the smell of his mother baking or the sound of his sister's footsteps in the garden. "What is yours?" He returns the inquiry with a gentle incline of his head, earring dangling from its perch. 

Around them, the greenhouse blossoms. It is safe here. Quiet. Especially at night when students are supposed to be in bed. In this life, no one will interrupt them. In another, a knight will usher them to sleep. In yet another, a sleepless Byleth escorts them back to their dorms. 

They all end the same. 

Dimitri considers his options. 

"Funny," he says, "I am not sure either." 

*

The bridge is sweltering, smoke drifting over the clustered armies and the sun baking down over the blood and bodies. Sweat drips into Dimitri's eye, his armor hanging heavy over his shoulders. Thick red splatters over the metal and stain his cloak. His lance withdraws from the intestines of his foe with a sickening _squelch._

Dimitri scowls as the body falls to the ground, a crumpled heap to step over. Next to him, another Imperial soldier is engulfed in flames. He glances around and spots Annette with a grim expression, hands still glowing from the magic. He nods his thanks and proceeds forward. More soldiers die. Some of them are from the Kingdom. Most are Imperial. All of them are stained red. 

None of it matters. All he knows is that he is one step closer to her. To killing her.

Each felled soldier is just another sacrifice on his father's funeral pyre. 

An arrow flies by his head. He can feel his breath catch in its tail feathers. His eye narrows and he raises Areadbhar in the direction of the person foolhardy enough to try to kill him. They shake as they try to draw another arrow. This one flies over his shoulder, not even close. It doesn't matter what they try. As long as he still draws breath, he will rip their head from their shoulders. 

Dimitri's body moves forward, his lance slicing through air and flesh and steel. Someone runs at him with a sword and they die with a scream on their lips. He knows, in some deep part of his subconscious, that his allies are around him. That they are trying to stay with him so he is safe, so they are safe. 

They need him alive to rule the kingdom when this is over. They rally to him like moths around flame. He’s their hope. Their lord. Their king. 

He doesn't care. They are inconsequential to his needs. 

Still, he smiles when Ashe shoots the enemy sniper through the eye. It is a grim joy, but the only pleasure that Dimitri can experience anymore. Perhaps he should feel reassured that his allies still care enough for him to want him alive, but all he has time for is thoughts of where to go next, how to kill next, when will he be able to get revenge— 

A horn sounds. More enemies coming from behind. Dimitri turns as Areadbhar bathes in blood, wetness hitting his face like a splash of rain. He vaguely hears orders to circle up, to form defenses in the rear. It's Byleth, he thinks. They sound far away, like someone shouting underwater — or maybe he's the one drowning. He can never tell. He’s soaked in blood but he can’t barely feel a thing. 

Sylvain flies by on his wyvern and Felix runs to catch up, pausing only to glare at Dimitri and hiss, "Get moving, boar." It's not enough to get Dimitri to run at anything more than a brisk jog until he sees a ghost. 

_Dedue._ Even in the deepest and darkest waters, Dedue has always been a beacon. Dimitri knows that it must be a sign of his madness incarnate, that he has seen the certainly dead Dedue before, but now Ashe is crying and Mercedes is shouting and even the Professor has lowered their blade in shock so perhaps—! 

Dimitri runs. He pushes through his way past Felix and is almost kicked by a horse but he runs to Dedue. Ingrid flies by, shouting something about enemy reinforcements to the north, and Dimitri knows he should pay attention but he doesn't care. His entire body is screaming. Not in pain, but in elation. He feels invigorated. Maybe, if he were to dare cradle the tiny flame that has begun in his chest, he'd even feel hope.

He can see the whites of Dedue's eyes. He's taller. Broader. Five years has done him well, new scars notwithstanding. His armor glistens and a bronze medal echoes the earring he wore for so long. Dedue is smiling grimly, still on guard, but his axe lowers when he sees Dimitri. 

"Your Highness!" It is only his own momentum that stops Dimitri from falling to the ground with the overwhelming sensation of hope. His feet keep carrying him forward, an entire battlefield and hundreds of lifetimes between them. 

They are looking at one another for the first time since Dimitri was slated to be executed. Their last meeting ended with them separated. Dimitri promises himself that he will never let that happen again. 

For the first time in five years, he has something to fight for besides revenge. _Someone_ to fight for. 

"Mages incoming!" Someone shouts. Dimitri pays them no attention. He is a few meters away from Dedue. He can see sweat dripping down his brow. Behind Dedue stands a battalion of Duscur warriors, each armed to the teeth and looking to Dedue for leadership. 

“Dimitri!” Someone shouts. It’s Byleth. He’s never heard them scream like that before. 

He does not have time to react when the first fireball explodes against his back. 

He is sent sprawling through the air, weightless for a moment, before crashing back down amongst the flames. He looks up. Dedue is running for him, as if he could protect Dimitri with his own body. Dimitri wants to shout at him to leave, that he has already given Dimitri the blessing that is the knowledge that Dedue yet lives, but that is never an option for one so devoted. 

Dimitri is struck by another blast of flame. He feels it tear through his armor and into his flesh. In a moment of panic, the light fading from the edges of his vision, he reaches out for Dedue. To stop him, perhaps, or to hold his hand one more time. 

They both die on the Great Bridge of Myrddin. Their hands are inches from one another. 

*

Dimitri wakes in a vast room with water on the floor. It curls against his scalp, a soft caress that chills him to the bone. He has shed his armor and is instead in a plain tunic and loose trousers. His head no longer aches. There are no burns. No bruises. He is fine. He is alone. His lance is nowhere to be seen. 

Nothing is to be seen, actually, now that he peers into the darkness. There is nothing except a large, imposing throne of stone that rises impossibly high into the air. It is empty. 

He is barefoot. As he flexes his feet, he can feel stone underneath his soles. He is on his back, he thinks. It's hard to tell without a sky or ceiling. He would think he's floating but the floor is solid enough. 

He wonders if he was wrong, if hell is not fire but water. 

"Oh, you're finally here." 

Dimitri sits up, scanning the oblivion for the source of the voice. A young girl now sits on the throne, legs crossed, chin balanced on her hand. She looks bored. She looks like she is eight but she also has a frightening depth in her eyes. Her hair is green. He wonders why that bothers him. 

"We will have to wait for the other one. I hate explaining myself twice." She reminds Dimitri of Byleth, somehow. Perhaps in the flatness of her vowels or the slow blink she punctuates her sentences with. He doesn't like it. He doesn’t like her. 

"Who are you?" Dimitri asks. He first gets to his knees, water sliding off him without dampening his clothes or hair. He tries to ignore how odd it feels as he gets to his feet. "Where am I?" 

"It does not matter," she replies and Dimitri feels a surge of anger. He's confident he's dead, confident that this is hell, and he knows he doesn't deserve them but he wants answers because he's sick of being stuck in the dark and feeling like he's just a pawn on the board— 

"Dimitri?" 

He turns and there, in similar garb, stands Dedue. He looks confused. Dimitri doesn't care, can't stop himself from running to his side but his hands tremble too much to touch him. Dedue grasps his shoulders and squeezes tightly. Time seems to slow. Dimitri swallows. 

"You're here," he breathes. "Why are you here?" 

"I am not sure where _here_ is," Dedue confesses. "I think we should be dead, but—" He stops, noticing their voyeur. 

She waves. She does not smile. "You are both dead," she confirms, and Dimitri's stomach shouldn't lurch the way it does, but he still feels like the world is spinning. He can feel bile build in his throat. "But you won't stay that way for long. Byleth is interesting, choosing to start with you two." 

"What does Byleth have to do with this?" Dedue asks, eyes narrowing in rare anger. No, not true anger — caution. Suspicion. Maybe even fear. 

"What do you mean, we won't stay this way?" Dimitri wants to fix Dedue's worries, to smooth over the crease in his brow, but he doesn't know how. "If we're dead, how can we stop being dead?" 

The girl yawns. "You're trapped. Doomed. Lost. You'll always be trapped until you can find your way out."

Dedue and Dimitri share a look. She hasn't really answered their questions, but it's better than nothing. Dimitri still can feel the undercurrent of anger, but it has calmed enough that he can think properly. 

"Why are we trapped, then? I don't understand," Dimitri continues, turning so he may face her directly. 

"What is there to understand? You are doomed. This fragment is meaningless. You cannot live so you cannot escape. Until you find the right fragment, then there is no escape. We will continue to do this." The girl crosses and uncrosses her legs. “On and on and on we go until you get out. Then we’ll do this with everyone else, I suppose.” 

"So this… maze isn't real. It's more… metaphorical," Dimitri reasons. The girl shrugs. "And we have to escape it… somehow." Dimitri wants to hold his face in his hands and scream when the girl nods as if that is all he needs to know. 

"You have done this before," Dedue accuses her. She smiles at him, cold to the quick. Dimitri shivers. Dedue reaches out so their fingers are tangled together. His palms should be rough but they are not. 

It strikes Dimitri, in that moment, that he has two eyes. He laughs. The sound echoes off invisible walls. 

"This is — this is ridiculous! A labyrinth? Reincarnation? None of this can be real. I am going mad. I — I am mad." He stumbles forward. "I do not know who you are, but I will not allow you to use us in some game." 

"Don't take your anger out on me." The girl pouts. "I feel that I will regret making this promise. But! Our time is almost up." She claps her hands together, a smile on her face. "Despite this, I do look forward to whatever you encounter. I hope this will be entertaining!"

Dimitri steps forward to argue, to try to get more answers, but he can't. The world goes dark, everything swimming in and out of shadows. The water reaches up and swirls around his ankles, shooting up his calves and tugging at his waist. He tries to break free, but it curls against his chest and tendrils attach to his neck and he is pulled down, down, down— 

There is nothing but the startling green eyes of the girl, all encompassing, omnipresent and omnipotent, haunting and empty all at once. 

**FRAGMENT 13**

Dimitri can't breathe. The smoke is thick over the village, the smell of wood and bodies mingling together and casting dark black smoke over the sky. There's screams of pain and of delight. He's not sure which is the cause of the shiver down his spine. He can't stop and think nor collect himself. He can barely blink blood out of his eyes as it drips down from a wound he took to the head.

"We're close," Dimitri says to his companion, not sure how much he understands. The people of Duscur speak a different language and he was never expected to learn it. He points to the edge of town for emphasis. "Just a bit further." 

The boy nods. He is following close behind, though his limp in getting worse. Still, they can't stop now. There's nowhere safe. Soldiers are going house by house, street by street. Dimitri's not sure they'll recognize him as prince and knows they won't listen to reason. But Rodrigue is here, brought to get revenge for Glenn, though he hasn't raised a weapon himself. He will be enough to dissuade any overly eager knights. 

He can help. He hasn't been calling for the murder of innocents. He has listened to Dimitri. Surely he can help protect him and the person who Dimitri has saved.

The clatter of armor starts growing louder. Dimitri grits his teeth. He is torn — stop and try to hide or keep running? Can they outrun fully trained soldiers? Maybe they will be merciful, see two boys running for their lives and consider it just if they escape.

Dimitri passes the body of a woman, her long hair not quite covering the corpses of her children, and decides that seeking mercy is a fool's errand. 

The end of the street is there. It’s within a spear throw. Dimitri knows that Rodrigue sits on his horse, just out of sight. He opens his mouth to shout for help, but he stumbles — his vision erupts in white as pain blossoms red on his back. An arrow loose from a Faerghan bow. The boy behind him shouts in alarm and lets go of his hand. Dimitri wants to tell him to hold on, but he doesn’t even know his name. He just knows they need to hold on, that if they can get a few more feet they’ll be safe. 

The crown prince of Faerghus and an unknown boy from Duscur are just two more casualties in the masacre. 

**FRAGMENT 24,843**

“So, my dear sister, I heard that you and Lord Vestra danced three times at the ball last week." Lord Blaiddyd offers her a shrewd smile, his head tilted to the side while his remaining eye dances with mirth. Lady Hresvelg — for yes, she did keep her mother’s last name, the two half siblings by their father’s blood — gives her brother a fond but exasperated glance. 

“And what of it, my dear brother?” A book lays open in her lap, a cup of tea ignored on the table next to her. She is open for conversation, though, because she hasn’t enclosed herself in the library where she is most often found. 

“Nothing, only that I was present and I counted four dances with Lord Vestra. Shall I be inviting him to tea?” Lord Blaiddyd inquires. 

Lady Hresvelg chortles. “You shall do no such thing. If he intends on pursuing anything, it will not be due to your influence. Besides, shouldn’t we be gossiping about your actions at the ball? So many single ladies of high regard and the noble Lord Blaiddyd didn’t offer his hand a single time. What a scandal.” Her voice is light, though, and the servants who overhear their chatter in the lounge know there is nothing to fear. 

It has been many years since Lord Blaiddyd’s last fit, after all. 

“I should be commended, I think, for my restraint.” Lord Blaiddyd toys with the edge of his overcoat. The windows are open to allow the fresh London air in — at least, as fresh as London gets. It’s hot, but not enough to forgo modern dignity and abandon one’s proper garb. “After all, there are poems written about my best qualities — whether it be my missing eye, my limp, my dour countenance or my sour personality. They describe me as one would a French hunchback or a man-made monster. Women must know everything there is to know and the sane ones will treat me as deserved.”

He earns a very unlady-like snort from Lady Hresvelg. “You forget your most desirable trait.”

“What is that?”

Lady Hresvelg looks around the room. She looks at the baby-blue wallpaper, the original oak furniture, the portrait of his late father and mother that hung in the corner with a currently unlit silver candelabra, and the fresh flowers that adorned the space. This is just one of the dozens of rooms in their summer home — that which is his legally, as the eldest son, but theirs for all other purposes. 

This is one of the _smaller_ rooms. 

Lord Blaiddyd colors, lowering his head. “I suppose you have some merit, but I would hope that at least one lady at the ball would not be quite so pragmatic.” 

“You have many positive qualities, brother, besides that which sits in your accounts and one day someone will realize that. Then I shall tease you endlessly about her.” Lady Hresvelg picks her book up, smile still on her face. “And we no longer will worry about my friendship with Lord Vestra." 

And for that, Lord Blaiddyd laughs. There is no chance to truly respond, however, because the butler enters and clears his throat. He gives the two a shallow bow.

“A letter has arrived for Lord Blaiddyd,” he announces, procuring the envelope from seemingly nowhere. The cream-colored paper is easy to take with careful fingers and Lord Blaiddyd only glances at the name on the front before standing. “If your lordship requires it, I may fetch his lapdesk?” The butler offers. 

“No need, I believe I have some paper and ink here.” Indeed, Lord Blaiddyd is able to locate a letter opener and the necessary supplies with little effort. He slices through the seal — an elegant blot of silver wax pressed into the personal emblem of Eisner House — and slides the letter out. 

“Who is it from?” Lady Hresvelg asks, curiosity setting her book aside once more. “Is Margrave Gautier trying to introduce you to someone again?” 

“No,” Lord Blaiddyd replies, eyebrows furrowing. “It is an invitation for tea tomorrow at the Eisner Estate. It mentions you as well.” 

“Oh?”

“It states that Mr. Eisner would like to introduce us to a friend of his — a Mr. Dedue Molinaro who will be in the city for this season.” Lord Blaiddyd brandishes his quill with almost as much familiarity as a sword, careful to not spill ink over his gloves. “Shall I respond for both of us?” 

Lady Hresvelg nods. “I think that would be for the best. I trust Mr. Eisner’s opinions. He always has the most delightful company.”

“And you have my agreement.” Lord Blaiddyd shivers as he pens his response, a strange sense of anticipation settling into his stomach. He casts the thought aside, instead choosing to focus on that which is in front of him — the company of his half-sister, a peaceful afternoon, and the promise of good tea tomorrow. That is all that matters.

**FRAGMENT 1**

Dimitri can't breathe. His vision is blurred by tears and an invisible hand seems to have clawed its way around his throat. The paper is crumpled in his hand, the source of his infinite sorrow and oh so small when crushed in his steel gauntlets. He knows he should be more dignified, that he is the king now and he needs to act like it, but everything is too much and empty all at once— 

"I'm sorry, your Majesty," Sylvain says, the bearer of the bad news. "He was my friend too." 

And Dimitri knows that he's trying, that his commiseration comes from a place of care, but in that moment it takes every ounce of self-control that Dimitri has every mustered not to lash out. 

"Leave," he says instead. Sylvain hesitates. "I said, leave." 

The door closes softly behind him. Dimitri is alone. He has always been alone. 

*

When he faces Edelgard, he fights not to save his kingdom or to stop her tyranny from spreading. He fights not because he hates her ideals or wishes Adrestia gone. No, it is simple. He wants revenge. The dead must have their payment. 

When he stumbles, when his balance and blade are lost in the mud that sinks around his ankles, he bares his teeth at her and glares. Lightning breaks the sky. He is unafraid. He welcomes the feeling of Edelgard's axe against his neck. The same way he eagerly awaits the warmth of blood staining his skin red, he anticipates the comfort of Dedue's embrace. 

Before he dies, he can see the professor look at him with sad eyes. He curses them to hell along with everyone else. 

**FRAGMENT ∞**

Dimitri dies. A lot. 

He doesn't remember all of them. There’s too many, each worse than the last. Sometimes it’s fast. Sometimes it’s slow. It always happens.

While he lives, he doesn't remember any of the other existences. Perhaps he will have a sense of familiarity, of déjà vu, but never anything tangible. Never something he can grasp with his bare hands, nothing to hold onto while everything seems to fall apart and drag him down with it. 

Often, it feels like he is drowning. Sometimes, it feels like he is in free fall. Regardless of the circumstances, he dies. So does Dedue. That disturbs him even more. 

Sothis does not seem to care. If anything, her amusement is only tempered by her annoyance that this has continued. 

"Why can you not solve this?" She cries, time and time again. 

"I am trying," Dimitri hisses, gritting his teeth. "But you will not tell me what I am supposed to do." 

Sothis shrugs, leaning on the arm of her stone throne. Her hair seems to flow in its own time, waving without a breeze. Dimitri shivers. It's not cold. 

"I do not know what you gain by watching us die," he says. He swallows down bile, recalling the most recent death — him, skewered on an arrow, Dedue, helplessly watching from across the battlefield. He didn’t die quick enough to avoid seeing Dedue run down by a group of cavalry. 

“I gain nothing. You gain nothing. This is all pointless if you and your friend do not succeed,” Sothis replies. 

In the different lives, Dedue and Dimitri aren’t always friends. Dedue tries to kill him on more than one occasion, succeeds about half as many. In fairness, Dimitri has had Dedue’s blood on his hands. Dimitri's not too fond of those fragments but they're doomed to happen all the same. 

They aren't always in what Dimitri thinks is the original universe, a Fódlan with magic and kingdoms and chivalry. Sometimes they're in shiny new apartments or rugged tents and cabins. Once, Dimitri falls in love with his handsome tour guide while on his honeymoon. 

No matter what happens, they fall in love. 

No matter what happens, they both still fall. 

**FRAGMENT 17,513**

"We need to talk." 

Dimitri blinks. His living room — his and Dedue's actually, their little apartment filled with colorful blankets and soft throw pillows and a dark wood bookshelf next to their flat screen TV — is crammed full with his friends. Felix is the one who spoke, his arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. 

But there is Mercedes, sitting in the armchair with Annette on one side and Ashe on the other. Ingrid is pacing, her bottom lip red from biting, and Sylvain straightens up from where he was playing with his phone. 

Dedue is there too. He stands in the center, hands tucked under armpits, a frown on his handsome face. 

"Is everything alright?" Dimitri swallows. "Did — Didi something happen?" 

"We had a suggestion," Annette begins. "Maybe you should sit down. Do you want water?" She starts to head towards the kitchen, but stops when— 

"You need to go to therapy," Felix says, because he has no hesitation or care, swinging words like a broadsword. "You are ruining your life. We are sick of watching that happen." 

Dimitri feels like the ground is getting pulled from underneath his feet. His head starts to throb. He can't breathe. He wants to say something, but his throat is closed up and no words come to mind. 

His — his friends, if he can call them that, start talking. They're worried, they say. They think that he is letting his life fall apart. They think that he's not sleeping enough, not eating enough. They think he's too anxious, too angry, too sad, too _much_. 

"It's like watching a supernova," Sylvain tries to explain. "Like, man, we care about you so much. It's just — you're gonna explode if you keep going like this."

"I am fine," Dimitri finally says, even though he feels like he's going to be sick. "Therapy is — is unnecessary." 

"It isn't. I'm in therapy. Ashe is in therapy. It's helped us a lot," Annette insists. "It's very normal for people to go, even if it's just a little." 

Ashe nods. "Exactly. It isn't anything to be ashamed about, Dimitri. And it'll be good for you in the long run." He offers a smile. "We only bring it up because we care about you." 

"We love you," Mercedes promises. 

"Sometimes it feels like we care about you more than you do," Ingrid adds. 

"I do care about me," Dimitri says. His stomach is starting to ache. Nerves or something else? He's not sure when he last ate a vegetable, but he ate so he thinks that's what matters. "It would inconvenience people too much. I — I am trying very hard to not be angry, because I know you are all trying to come from a place of care, but—" 

"If you cared, you'd listen to us." Felix narrows his eyes. "We aren't asking you to go in to inpatient or something. Just go see a therapist for an hour a week. Then we'll get off your ass about this." 

"I do not drive. Someone will have to take me."

"And we all agreed we can help if you need a ride," Ingrid replies. "I know it's drastic… it wasn't my first choice, but you are… In-N-Out…" She trails off because no one really needs to be reminded of his fit at In-N-Out two weeks ago. 

Dimitri winces. He’ll probably never be allowed back to that one, if he’s being honest with himself.

  
Felix snaps his fingers in front of Dimitri’s face. He’s lucky that Dimitri doesn’t punch him. “I’ve known you my whole life. It’s getting worse. _You_ are getting worse. Go to therapy before you can’t be fixed.” 

"Dedue," Dimitri says, one final attempt for someone to side with him, "Dedue, what do you think of all this?" 

Suddenly, all eyes are on Dedue. It is difficult for him to look small, but he looks… timid. His eyes are tired. His shoulders are slumped. He frowns. Dedue doesn’t say anything. Dimitri wants to beg him to say something, but his mouth won’t move. If Dedue doesn’t believe in him, then who could? 

"Don't fucking look at Dedue to be your savior. You think that therapy is an inconvenience? It's not more inconvenient than you having a mental breakdown at Costco," Felix snaps, referring to the incident a month ago. In-N-Out, Costco, Home Depot — really, it’s a wonder that Dimitri is even let out of the house sometimes. 

When it is said out so clearly, Dimitri supposes it does sound like he has a problem. Maybe a small one. Still, he can't shake the defensiveness, his urge to lash out curling in his stomach like claws. 

"I just — this all feels like so much—" 

"Dimitri, it's because we love you," Mercedes repeats. "You're graduating in a year. You will never have as much flexibility as you will now. And we can be here for you throughout it all." 

"And if you don't go, then we are not responsible for what happens next," Felix asserts. He's shaking a little, his mouth a thin line. Dimitri wonders at the fact that his former best friend, the person he was inseparable from, is now a complete mystery. 

"Dimitri…" Dedue pauses, licking his lips. "If you do not want to make a decision… you may think on it."

"No, Dedue, he doesn't get to think about it." Felix snaps. 

"Felix—" Sylvain speaks up, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't touch me," Felix snarls. "We agreed. Dimitri answers us now. No getting cold feet." 

"He is my partner," Dedue reminds him. 

Felix scoffs. "I've known him longer." 

Dedue looks like he has more to say, but the throbbing in Dimitri's head is too much for him to think and all he wants is peace and quiet. He's barely even conscious, it feels, when he opens his mouth and says,

"Please, do not argue. I will… I will try to go to therapy. That is all I can say." Dimitri holds his hands out, palms up and open. "I am sorry for worrying you." 

It doesn't look like they believe him. He's not sure he believes himself. 

**FRAGMENT 73**

Dimitri squats over the cold ground, his hands numb even in their fur mittens. His breath comes out in puffs of white. Around him, a gentle breeze brings down more snow as it whistles through the trees. It is about as quiet as it can get, the noise from the village faded from distance. He is, for all intents and purposes, alone. 

He reaches into his small bag, the leather pouch worn with age, and draws out a handful of runes. Softly, carefully, he murmurs the words of power. He invokes the gods with care, avoiding their names but calling upon their titles and their honors. He asks for wisdom and hope, for signs and for visions. 

With a final bitter murmur, he cast the runes. A shiver ran down his spine as they fell onto the dirt. 

His eyes ran over the pieces, each marked with distinct symbols. He is not a master of the craft, not in the way that some of his compatriots are, but his belief is strong and that is enough to form a connection. He also is well-educated in their meaning, lessons learnt over low fires from a father long gone. 

Norsemen didn't live to be old, the best of them called young and quick to fight in Odin's halls. Dimitri knows it is an honor, one he hopes to hold one day, but even he sometimes feels bitter at his father's passing. 

The runes hold… promise. There is the mark of Odin, having landed upright and pointing to the north — good signs for battle. Also, as the patron of runes and prophecy, it lends weight to the cast itself. Then there is the symbol of Freyja, upside-down and clustered next to the _frawjōn_ — Freyr. Beauty and war reversed and peace and prosperity joined. 

Unclear, though perhaps a tad ominous. 

"Chief! Are you finished yet?" It is Sylvain, his red hair half-concealed under a thick cap of fur. He comes towards him with an easy grin, his axe on his belt and shield slung over one shoulder. "We are ready to leave if you have the blessing of the gods." 

Dimitri stands, brushing some snow off his pants. He stares down at the runes. Freyja and Freyr… good signs by any means, yet Freyja in that position invokes dark tidings. Only, he cannot tell if it is for himself or the party. 

Still, is it worth holding the entire raid for what could be nothing? He is uncertain. Another consequence of the gods being distant — it is impossible to ever truly know their wills.

"Is all well?" Sylvain asks, stopping several meters from Dimitri. 

"It is fine. We have the blessings of the gods. We leave with the tide." Dimitri kneels down, scoops the runes in his hand, and then stuffs them back in his pouch. It hangs from his hip alongside his sword and dagger, all things any sensible Norse chieftain possesses. "Where are the others?" 

"Last minute preparations." Sylvain claps Dimitri on the back. "It will be fine, Chief. We trust your leadership." 

"Thank you. Let us pray the gods agree." 

Sylvain laughs, but Dimitri finds no humor in the way the sky darkens. 

**FRAGMENT 24,843**

The gardens of the Blaiddyd Estate are lovely this time of the evening, orange light streaking across the London sky. Lord Blaiddyd has spent many a time sitting amongst the flowers, seeking answers in the formation of the clouds. On this occasion, however, he finds his remaining eye drawn to one individual who wears a handsome jacket with a white cravat tied neatly around his neck. With his gloves and hat, only the face is visible but that is all that matters.

Mr. Molinaro's smile is all Lord Blaiddyd desires to see. 

“You say that your mother — God bless her soul — cultivated these herself?” Mr. Molinaro questions. Lord Blaiddyd nods, gesturing to where the rose bushes have just been freshly trimmed. 

“Those were her favorites. She had them imported, you see, and she was always very cross when I ventured amongst them as a boy.” Lord Blaiddyd chuckles, shaking his head back and forth. “But she cared for every bush and shrub and tree you see.” He stops, vision falling on a bench that is shaded by an ancient elm. 

“She sounds like an incredible woman. I am pained that I may never meet her,” Mr. Molinaro admits. Lord Blaiddyd would draw his comment up as needless flattery in most, but when Mr. Molinaro speaks it feels like no such thing. “Do you have the same enjoyment in botany as she did?” 

Lord Blaiddyd resumes his pace. Mr. Molinaro does not struggle to keep up, the brisk air parting around them.

“I do not have the same eye for detail. My half-sister, Lady Hresvelg, will oversee the gardeners on most occasions. This is her home as much as it is mine,” Lord Blaiddyd impresses. Mr. Molinaro nods. “What of you? I recall that Mr. Eisner mentioned you had a background in such things.”

“Yes, I have studied the many uses of nature, whether it be medical or culinary or just for aesthetic purposes. I hope to study more in the Americas, someday, but I will need to secure funding for that.” Mr. Molinaro flushes, the change in shade barely visible with how his jacket and cravat covers him so. “My apologies, I did not mean to ramble on my own endeavors.” 

Lord Blaiddyd finds himself delighted, though, and carefully presses the information away for a later date, perhaps. He hopes that they can have more meetings such as this, at least for as long as the season lasts. He hasn’t the faintest idea of where Mr. Molinaro regularly resides, though England is not altogether that large when one has the funds that the Blaiddyd family boasts. 

“I find them fascinating, so please do not find yourself apologizing. I must only beg your pardon that I do not know much about these matters, so I will be a poor conversationalist,” Lord Blaiddyd replies earnestly. 

Mr. Molinaro looks at him with wide eyes. “You could never be poor company, Lord Blaiddyd.”

It takes a surprising amount of willpower for him not to ask Mr. Molinaro to call him _Dimitri_. 

"Well, I must then confess that I have never enjoyed the company of any as much as I enjoy yours, Mr. Molinaro," Lord Blaiddyd says instead. A shy smile dances across his face. Mr. Molinaro laughs good-heartedly. 

"You flatter me, Lord Blaiddyd. Are you not a friend of the finest gentlemen in England?"

"I beg you, say not a word of that in the ears of Lord Gautier. His pride is already so inflated, I worry that his clothes shall not fit if it grows any larger." And that draws another laugh from Mr. Molinaro, politely muffled behind one hand. Lord Blaiddyd grins despite himself. "But please, Mr. Molinaro, I hope you count yourself as one of those men."

"I am hardly a man with the pedigree of your fellows," Mr. Molinaro points out. 

“What, but no — you needn’t worry about such a thing. I’ve never thought of it while speaking with you.” Lord Blaiddyd gestures in the air. “Besides, you have the endorsement of Mr. Eisner and there is not a soul on this earth who could argue with him.” 

Mr. Molinaro is not frowning, but his lips form quite a line. "It is no insult to say the truth." 

"Family lines do not matter when it comes to the soul of a man," Lord Blaiddyd argues. “Mr. Eisner has not a drop of nobility. Why, he is not even English. If blood is not held against him, it shouldn’t matter for any other, least of all a man of your character.” 

"But blood and flesh does matter," Mr. Molinaro replies plainly. "Lord Blaiddyd, you are most fortunate to have been born in your station. You have risen to every demand — and more, if you do not mind me indulging in some rumors — that has come from it. But you will never comprehend what it is to be born otherwise." 

There is no noise save for the sound of birds in trees and the wind through grass. Mr. Molinaro sighs, looking away. 

"I apologize for my poor manners. You did not mean to harm." 

"Please, do not apologize. I — I admit that I have been blessed. But it should not be so. The circumstances of one's birth should be less important than their will." Lord Blaiddyd swallows. 

He feels adrift, almost, but he wants to hold onto Mr. Molinaro. Almost like a man drowning at sea, he is not sure what to do next. He is floundering and hoping for a lifeline. 

The only thing he knows is that this companionship, this friendship, is certain. It is just that he craves more. 

“Now, we may put such unpleasant things behind us if you wish. Tell me more of the book you were reading. Is it still as intriguing as when we last spoke?” Mr. Molinaro offers an out and Lord Blaiddyd grabs it with both hands. 

It isn’t until later, much later, that he thinks that it may not have been the right choice. 

**FRAGMENT 0**

“I hope that you have grown used to the monastery by now,” Dimitri says between mouthfuls of his meal. “I imagine it is much different than mercenary life, but I hope it is not worse.” 

Byleth nods. They are unnerving in truth, though Dimitri tries to not let it affect their interactions. It was certainly kind of them to pick the Blue Lions as their class, especially with how Edelgard and Claude were both vying for their attention. Dimitri isn’t foolish enough to think that he is as charismatic as Claude nor is he as clever as Edelgard. He has his honesty and willpower and the honor granted to him by his position. It’s mostly enough. 

“Classes have been going well,” Dimitri continues, already aware that he will have to fill most of the lunch with his own conversation. Dedue is there but is slower to warm up to strangers and has hardly exchanged a sentence or two with Byleth outside of classes.

These little lunches seem to be their way of trying to get to know the class. The other day, Ingrid and Sylvain were invited. The one before, Ashe and Annette. Byleth is quick to catch on to who gets along with whom, at least, though Dimitri supposes it’s not very hard. He’s hopeful that Byleth’s keen eye will keep him and Felix out of any lunches, at the very least. 

“I am excited for our first real challenge. The bandits… Well, it was not what I was expecting.” It was not the first time Dimitri had taken a life, after all. Faerghus was not shy about exposing her children to violence, not that Dimitri had any choice.

Dedue’s grip on his fork tightens.

Dimitri swallows another bite of food he cannot taste before continuing, his thoughts growing more and more disjointed the longer and longer he sits there. “But even the other lessons are interesting. I am very happy that you are our professor. Not that Manuela or Hanneman seem lacking, of course.” Is it just him, or is it warm? He can’t tell and wishes he could ask Dedue, but no — Byleth is right there. They would hear. 

Byleth looks at Dedue. He looks back. 

“This food is very good,” Dimitri lies. Byleth blinks at him. “Has anyone told you yet about the sword tournament that’s happening this month?” 

  
“Yes.” Byleth wipes at their mouth with a cloth napkin. “Felix won.” 

“O-Oh! Good for him.” Dimitri scrambles for something else to say. “Felix and I have known each other since we were children. We used to be very close. Though, ah, I would say that Dedue is the person I am closest to now.”

Dedue stiffens, but Byleth only smiles. Not for the first time, Dimitri has a crawling sensation up his spine. He is not sure why, but he is certain that they know more than they are letting on. 

**FRAGMENT 7,132,013**

It’s always dark out. It’s always dark out, nowadays. The closest thing to sunlight they get is a strange red haze that colors everything it touches. Dimitri’s not sure what color Dedue’s hair is anymore, only that it looks like watered-down blood. There’s a lot of real blood around too, staining the streets and the walls and their clothes. Felix has a slash of red around his neck like a handyman’s noose, left behind by a creature that tried to strangle him.

“Are you okay?” Sylvain asks, leaning over Felix but not quite touching him. Felix glares at him, gingerly rubbing his throat. There is no body from the creature. They turn into smoke and ash when killed. Doesn’t stop them from killing humans freely. 

“We have some more bandages,” Annette offers, starting to reach for her backpack. Felix holds his hand out to stop her. He’s always been too prideful for help. 

Dimitri watches from a distance away, Dedue’s presence behind him a grounding force. They are so close that a simple breath could have them touching, but that distance that exists is electric, enough to keep Dimitri upright despite the wariness that sinks into his bones. Dedue has his axe out, a gleaming piece of metal and wood carried away from the wreckage of a fire station. 

Dimitri is shaking. He hasn’t stopped shaking since the sky opened up and those… those creatures crawled out.

The end of the world is a lot slower than anyone thought it would be. 

“Don’t waste supplies,” Felix spits, his voice raw. He looks at Dimitri. “Do you still have it?” 

_It_. The book with the supposed magical incantation that, when uttered at the heart of all the madness, will banish the horrors back to nothingness. If this doesn’t work, then humanity is doomed. Even if it does work, humanity might still be doomed. Dimitri tries not to think about it. He’s also the only one who can read it.

He _really_ doesn’t like thinking about that. 

“Yeah.” Dimitri clutches his backpack strap with one pale hand. There’s dirt underneath his fingernails and circles under his eyes.

“We should get somewhere safer,” Ashe suggests. He is looking out into the darkness, eyes following something that Dimitri can’t see. “We only have a few more travelable hours.” 

Dimitri doesn’t know how he knows this. 

"Yeah. Let's go." 

The group falls into a ready pattern. Felix lets Sylvain haul him to his feet and if there's a soft kiss passed between them, well, Dimitri isn't supposed to notice so he says nothing. He takes the lead, pistol in one hand and a hunting knife in the other. Dedue is to his right, Felix to his left, and their friends behind. Dimitri can see that Felix is favoring one side over the other and keeps blinking past clammy, cold sweat. Even though he wants to stop and let Felix rest, there's too much riding on their haste. He can't disrespect Felix's choice to risk his life to save the world, no matter how bitter a taste it leaves in Dimitri's mouth. 

They're walking for an hour, maybe, ash and soot crunching beneath combat boots and sneakers wrapped in duct tape, when a scream echoes through the air. Weapons come up but, before they can pinpoint a direction, leathery wings beat and claws come out of nowhere. A creature with bat wings and hawk talons and too many eyes swoops down, aiming right for Felix. 

Dimitri doesn't think. He slams into Felix, knocking him aside. His pistol fires once, twice, and he slides his knife into the thing's ankle. It shrieks but those claws still wrap around Dimitri's torso. They sink in, crushing his ribs and making his head spin. He can hear his friends and see Dedue — brave, loyal, lovely Dedue — look at him with terror in his eyes. 

But that's about all Dimitri can think before he's whisked away, the ground moving further and further— 

A gunshot, when one's head is filled with the pounding of one's heart, sounds a lot like a whip crack. 

The ground hurls itself up towards Dimitri and he hits it with a sickening _thud_. He can't breathe. There's too much shouting for him to hear anything coherent. He can see the blurry outline of Mercedes approach, pull out a huge needle, and stab him in the thigh. The adrenaline shot does the deed and air rushes into his lungs, his vision sharpening. 

"Can you sit up?" Mercedes asks. 

"I — I think so." Dimitri tenses his shoulders. Something snaps back into place and he bites back a scream. Somewhere in the chaos, Dedue grabbed his hand and now Dimitri threatens to break it in his grip. "Is everyone else okay?" 

"Yes," Ingrid says. "Just worried about you. I thought — I thought you were—"

"Dead." Felix stands a little ways away, the rifle he used to shoot the eldritch horror cradled in his arms. Based on the look on his face, he is considering finishing its job. "Why did you do that?" Felix whispers.

"It was going to get you," Dimitri replies. "You are already hurt." 

The vein in Felix's neck bulges. The band of red shifts like a snake. Sylvain steps forward.

"I think what Fe means is—" 

"You are holding the only thing that can stop this. I would have been fine. I am willing to die for this. You need to stay alive." Felix is right, but that doesn't stop Dimitri from feeling a curl of panic at the idea of just watching his friend get lifted into the sky. "Next time a horror comes out, let me die. If that's what it takes to end this, then so be it." 

"I am not going to let you die," Dimitri swears. _Not like Rodrigue. Not like Glenn._ He's smart enough to not say it. 

Felix sneers. He's thinking the same thing, though in a less charitable manner. Dimitri can tell from the way his hands wrap around his gun.

"Can we have this conversation after we save the world?" Ingrid asks. 

"Don't tell Dimitri that. We don’t need his fucking hero complex getting any larger,” Felix, as if Dimitri hadn’t just saved his life, scoffs. Dimitri didn’t expect him to be thankful, per se, but this is a bit cold even for Felix. “Let’s go before more show up to finish what the first one started.”

“There’s always more,” Ashe mutters, but Dimitri doesn’t respond. He just grits his teeth, spits blood out of his mouth, and readies himself. 

He refuses to go quietly into the night.

**FRAGMENT 17,513**

"I have a question," Dimitri's therapist, a young woman named Lynn who has sharp eyes and a careful tongue that's only less notable than her bright sea-green hair, says one day. Dimitri taps his foot anxiously against the floor. The couch is never comfortable. He thinks there's something broken, a pole or spring that likes to dig into his back to matter how he moves. 

"Certainly," he replies, though he could say no if he really wanted. 

"What is your goal when you reach out to your friends?" 

Dimitri's not sure where she's going with this, but knows there must be some end. There always is. There has to be. 

"I want to help them," he says anyways.

"How so?" 

"Well, they are good people but they do not always make the best decisions. So I want to help them make those decisions or recover from them." Dimitri thinks of many nights picking Sylvain up when Ingrid refused and Felix couldn't. He thinks about helping Annette study for classes. He’s soothed Ashe’s fears about the future and cheered Mercedes through med school. 

He thinks about Dedue, cooking and helping clean and taking care of Dimitri because there's no one else Dimitri can be so vulnerable with. 

He swallows. 

"They are my friends. I want to help them. To keep them safe." 

"Which is very understandable," Lynn reassures him. "Those are valid feelings. We want to be able to keep the people we love safe. But what do you think would happen if you did not reach out to them?" 

"Well — if I do not do it, who will?" Dimitri leans forward. His foot stops. "Felix will never admit it, but he needs us. Sylvain too. And Ingrid and Mercedes have put so much effort into keeping those two functional, and to keep their friends alright, that they forget themselves. Ashe has already lost so much." He continues to list his other friends, even timid Marianne in the English department and clever Claude who seems to enjoy poking Dimitri intellectually and physically at every opportunity. 

Lynn listens. She's good at that. It's why Dimitri is paying her, after all.

Once he's done, she uncrosses and crosses her ankles. Dimitri waits. 

"What about Dedue?" She asks. 

_What about him?_ Dimitri wants to ask. He feels the familiar curl of anger and defensiveness. He forces himself to accept it and does his best to let it pass along, like a drifting cloud. He's not too sure he succeeds. 

"I don't know what you mean," he says instead. 

"Well, he is your partner, isn't he? So where do you help him?"

"I — I try to help him with everything," Dimitri tells her. "We trade most tasks. I cannot cook well, but I clean. Or, if he has a headache, I give him a massage." Dimitri looks at his hands. His nails are a wreck. He is doing better, but it's too easy to bite and peel at them. 

Lynn writes something down. Dimitri breathes in, counts to five, breathes out, counts to seven. 

"Who do you rely on?" She asks. He blinks. 

"What do you mean?" 

"When you help your friends, who helps you?" 

Dimitri's answer is almost immediate. "Dedue." When Lynn doesn't say anything else, he adds, "I do not like to rely on others. It makes me feel selfish." 

"Why is that?" 

He doesn't like where this is going. He suddenly feels like a man overboard. The swell of the tide buffers him back and forth. It’s a never-ending current, really, this struggle against his own mind. His chest aches, not dissimilar to when he used to bind. 

Dimitri takes another shaky breath. "I just — I can't make others deal with me like that. I cannot allow myself to become a burden. I must be better than that."

"Why? Why would asking for help make you a burden?"

"It just does." Dimitri swallows. His mouth is dry. He can't taste anything. 

"Is Felix a burden? Or Annette?" 

"No, of course not," he automatically replies. "You don't understand. It is different." 

Lynn's eyes are too soft to be looking at someone like him. "Help me understand. I want to know what you are thinking." 

Dimitri waves a hand in the air. "They are — It is my duty to help them. I need to keep them safe. Or else—" He squeezes his eyes shut. He hears ringing in his ears. He can't remember what Glenn's funeral was like, but he can remember what Glenn's body looked like. He can remember how blood, once dried and colagulated, resembles jelly. "I must be responsible for them. It is the only way things can be." 

He has nightmares, sometimes. Visions, maybe. Things that are untrue, but feel as real as Dedue in bed next to him. 

Felix, sword in hand, teal cape billowing in the wind as rain pours around them. Ingrid, curtseying in a proper dress with too much lace. Ashe, raising a bow and arrow at some many-tentacled monster. Mercedes, spandex suit covering her with her hands glowing bright like a star. Byleth looking at him with sad eyes, blood splattered across their face. Claude, riding in some mechanical monster with a fierce grin on his face. 

Dedue, hand inches from Dimitri's as they both die on a stone bridge somewhere far from home. 

Lynn looks at Dimitri with an indecipherable expression. "I think that your homework will be counting the amount of times you help someone and the amount of time someone helps you this week." 

He nods. What else is he supposed to do? 

**FRAGMENT 24,843**

The party is truly one that will be remembered as the height of the season’s celebrations, one with a formal enough list of attendees that Lord Blaiddyd is not even the most distinguished present. It is how he is able to find a secluded corner for himself and his most dear of friends, though it takes a moment longer for him to fetch drinks for the two of them. Regardless, Lord Blaiddyd soon returns to Mr. Molinaro and company with drinks in hand. 

Lord Gautier is chattering aimlessly as he is apt to do — Lord Blaiddyd finds no fault in that, though he is slightly fearful of what tales Lord Gautier is sharing in what he considers _casual_ company. He also takes pause at seeing his many friends having appeared, though he could have put money down on Ms. Dominic dancing with a young man not a moment prior and the others similarly scattered. Yet they are all there save his sister and Mr. Eisner, who flits from social circle to social circle as a regular nomad. 

He finds himself frowning despite his manners, though he does not say a word. He is too busy noting the discontent expression that mars Mr. Molinaro’s otherwise handsome face. Rather, he is still handsome but his visage is darkened by the spectre of some greater threat. Lord Blaiddyd is uncertain how to proceed, handing Mr. Molinaro his drink without a word. 

“My friend, you did not bring me anything?” Lord Gautier teases, a gleam in his eyes. Lord Fraldarius scoffs, adjusting his cravat.

“Sylvain, you need not have more to drink. Ignore him,” Lord Fraldarius instructs Lord Blaiddyd.

“You are so direct to someone you call friend,” Ms. Dominic exclaims, as if Lord Fraldarius’s behavior is truly so strange. This, however, begets a series of comments between the three, with Lady Galatea watching with a smile of her own. 

Lord Blaiddyd takes the opportunity to step closer to Mr. Molinaro. 

“You do not seem well. Are my friends bothering you? Do you wish to find somewhere to sit?” Lord Blaiddyd asks, reaching out. When his gloved fingers brush Mr. Molinaro’s sleeve, Mr. Molinaro recoils as if burnt. “Did I do something offensive?” 

“It is nothing that you should concern yourself with,” Mr. Molinaro replies stiffly. This sparks something coarse in Lord Blaiddyd and he struggles to smother it. 

“I care for you. Tell me what is wrong,” he insists, the beast coiling in his stomach. 

“I do not wish to ruin the night. Besides, it is ungentlemanly to discuss such things at a party.”

“And I care not a whit for that. Manners or otherwise — they may hang themselves!” Lord Blaiddyd is aware that he is raising his voice, but his friends are too polite to inquire as to why. Still, Ms. Dominic glances at him and Mr. Ubert is fidgeting with his sleeves. Lord Fraldarius drops one hand to his belt. He wears a ceremonial sword. Surely he will not do anything foolish. 

It has been many years since Lord Blaiddyd’s last fit, after all. 

“What happened while I was gone?” Lord Blaiddyd presses. Lord Gautier launches into another story, one almost obscene, drawing attention to him. His tale does nothing to smooth the crease in Mr. Molinaro’s forehead and thus does little to assuage Lord Blaiddyd’s fears. 

Mr. Molinaro stands stiff as a corpse and Lord Blaiddyd has never wanted more than to pull him close and swear to protect him — and oh, when did he acquire such a weakness? 

“We do not all have the ease to ignore the niceties of polite company.” Mr. Molinaro takes a deep breath. “Please, calm yourself, Lord Blaiddyd. Worry not for something that does not concern you.” 

But how he wishes to confess that he would be involved in every breath that Mr. Molinaro takes! Only, now is not the place and Lord Blaiddyd must remind himself of such. Even with his noble name, such an indiscretion could bring great peril. If only it were easier — but no, those are fanciful thoughts that he needs not possess, not at his age. 

“I wish to bring you comfort, my friend. Nothing more,” Lord Blaiddyd confesses with an earnest expression. “I fear that you do not trust me, wishing to keep secrets from me.” 

“Perhaps they are best kept secret,” Mr. Molinaro argues. 

“Nonsense. Nothing need be kept between us, two men of like mind and spirit.” It is bold but Lord Blaiddyd has never done things by halves. He extends his hand again, trying to grasp Mr. Molinaro’s wrist. Mr. Molinaro steps aside, eyes narrowing. It is the spark that ignites his temper and he tosses his glass to the ground. 

The shatter is enough to silence their corner, their friends turning to see what has happened. Lord Fraldarius sees something familiar, a look that has been gone for quite some time, and steps forward to intervene, but it is much too late.

“Why will you not tell me what troubles you? Are we not friends? Do you not trust me?” Mr. Molinaro’s eyes go wide, but Lord Blaiddyd is beyond care. “I invite you to these events, I defend you to any detractors. What else does a man have to do to prove his loyalty? Shall I give you the coat off my back?”

“Lord Blaiddyd, you are drunk—” Lord Gautier is too surprised to stop Lord Blaiddyd pushing him back. He stumbles into Lady Galatea, who has one hand extended. Mr. Ubert scans the crowd as Ms. Martriz steps towards Mr. Molinaro. 

“My friend…” She glances at him, then back at Lord Blaiddyd.

“I believe I shall be leaving for the night,” Mr. Molinaro tells her. He turns and starts to exit, the crowd parting for him. 

“Coward! Tell me how you feel to my face,” Lord Blaiddyd raves. He steps forward, but Lord Fraldarius grabs at his jacket. Though he is the smaller man, he has never struggled to hold his friend back. “You may spit on my companionship directly or not at all. If you leave, I will utter a hundred curses on your house!” Lord Blaiddyd continues to rave as Mr. Molinaro leaves. In the crowd, he does not see Mr. Eisner with a sad expression on his face. 

**FRAGMENT 17,513**

Dimitri is reading in bed as Dedue enters. He is wearing a loose pair of gym shorts and a T-Shirt that’s several years old, his hair is loose and wavy, and his smile fills Dimitri with warmth. 

“Hello, my love,” Dimitri says as he sets the book aside. Dedue slips into the bed. Their hands meet somewhere in the middle and Dimitri grins. “I’m happy you do not have to work tomorrow.” 

“As am I. It means we can sleep in tomorrow.” Dedue kisses Dimitri on the forehead. If Dimitri blushes a little, then that’s of no consequence. 

He leans forward to catch Dedue’s lips against his own. It’s easy to shift so that he’s straddling Dedue’s lap, easy to put his hands on Dedue’s shoulders and squeeze there as the kiss deepens. Neither Dedue nor Dimitri are small men and their bed groans underneath their weight. Dimitri gasps as Dedue snakes a hand under his shirt, rubbing circles against his spine. Dedue is usually warm, runs hot as opposed to Dimitri’s cold, and now is no exception. Dimitri can only moan against Dedue’s mouth, heat pooling in his stomach. 

Dedue’s tongue presses forward and Dimitri meets him eagerly in the middle. There’s a hint of desperation to it. Dimitri needs to make sure, in moments like these, that Dedue is with him and Dedue must try to reassure Dimitri that they are on the same page. But despite that, they still are able to enjoy one another’s presence and Dimitri would be lying if he said that Dedue didn’t turn him on. A lot. 

Dimitri’s dating Dedue and is madly in love with him. He’s allowed to also appreciate his arms and lips and, well, everything else about him.

“May I take your shirt off?” Dedue asks when they break the kiss. Dimitri blinks past stars and nods. He helps pull his shirt off and tosses it aside. Wordlessly he tugs on Dedue’s shirt until the favor is returned. 

The expanse of Dedue’s chest is mesmerizing. It’s not the first time Dimitri has seen Dedue shirtless, of course, and it shouldn’t be the last time but it’s still mouthwatering. Dimitri trails one hand down to cup Dedue’s chest, relishing in the soft gasp that escapes Dedue’s mouth. He shivers as Dedue starts to squeeze his ass, gentle but still a clear indicator of where the night is going. 

Dimitri slides his other hand down so he can play with Dedue’s nipples, smiling wildly as Dedue’s vision grows unfocused. Dedue seems content to let Dimitri take control, though he is still holding onto him tightly. Not that Dimitri minds, of course, and he spreads his legs a little further so he can grind against Dedue with less difficulty. He’s wet — hormones haven’t dried him out all that much. 

“I love you,” Dimitri murmurs in Dedue’s ear. 

“And I love you,” Dedue replies, gently taking one of Dimitri’s wrists and placing his hand back on his shoulder. Dimitri pauses, though the edges of lust are starting to get the best of him. “You have been doing so well, my dear. I’m very proud of you.”

Dimitri freezes. Dedue frowns, thumb swiping over Dimitri’s wrist. 

“You must see your progress as well. Your moods are less volatile.” Dedue leans forward to kiss Dimitri, but he pulls away. 

His good mood has vanished and he just feels a pit of — of something in his stomach. What would Lynn want him to do? Is he supposed to count to five or just let the thought pass like a piece of trash in the wind? Dimitri can’t think of anything but his disgust, his despair. He wants to throw Dedue away but he can’t hurt Dedue, not ever. Instead, Dimitri pulls himself back, still sitting on the bed but more out of a lack of direction than anything else. 

“What do you mean?” Dimitri whispers.

“It was insensitive of me,” Dedue replies, his face a thousand emotions that Dimitri can’t read. “We don’t need to talk about it. I just want to enjoy our night.” 

Dimitri shakes his head. “No, we have to.” He slaps a hand on the bed. “I thought that you didn’t care if I was in therapy.” He doesn’t get a reply. Dedue is looking at him, but won’t meet his gaze. He looks at Dimitri’s collarbone, at his wrist, at his knee. Anywhere but Dimitri’s eyes. “Dedue, talk to me.” 

There’s the familiar grip of panic gripping Dimitri’s throat. His stomach turns. He feels like his world is upside-down. He’s on a boat in the middle of the Pacific, pitching and churning with the whims of the waves, and his northern star is nowhere to be seen. Dedue is not there to help him. 

Dedue is right there and he won’t look at Dimitri. 

“What are you talking about?” Dimitri asks again, his voice rising. He tries to go back through the last few days, the last few weeks. The days start to blur together at the best of times, though, and he suddenly can’t even remember what he’s done in the last hour, let alone the whole day. “I thought you didn’t care.” 

“I have always thought you should seek help,” Dedue says slowly. “It was my idea that you see a therapist.”

“What?” Dimitri can’t believe his ears. He can’t trust his own senses. Nothing is real. He’s had this conversation before, but he’s never heard these words in his life. 

“I have been worried about you. I was too scared to tell you myself, so Mercedes suggested that we tell you together. It went… worse than I thought it would, but you started to go and that was the goal.” Dedue fists at the sheets, staring down at his fists. “I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.” 

There is no silence, only the roar of blood in his ears and the way his heart beats in his chest. 

Dimitri isn’t sure when he gets up, only knows when he grabs a sweatshirt and pulls it on. He’s barely aware of his own body as he gets his shoes on. The left one won’t fit and he’s sitting there, on the ground, for an unknown amount of time. Dedue lingers in the doorway, saying words that Dimitri doesn’t hear. His mouth is moving, his hands gesturing, but Dimitri could have a gun to his head and he wouldn’t be able to hear what Dedue is trying to tell him. 

There’s a distinct sense of deja vu that comes up, only the last time this happened Dedue was wearing battle armor and Dimitri was arming himself for war. Dimitri was preparing to take revenge for someone’s death. Dedue begged him not to go and Dimitri refused to listen. 

_A dream,_ Dimitri thinks as he keeps trying to shove his foot in his sneaker. _Nothing more_. 

It takes a bit for Dimitri to realize that he’s trying to put the shoe on the wrong foot. 

He shoves it on the correct appendage and stands. Something snaps, almost like his ears popping, and the sound of Dedue talking suddenly becomes comprehensible.

“— apologies. Please do not go, we can discuss things. I can — I was only trying to help you.” Dedue falls silent when Dimitri glares at him. 

“If you want what’s best for me, then you should have let me live my own life! I don’t need your help. I’m not a child.” Dimitri swings the front door open. It’s cold out, enough that he can feel the chill sinking under his jacket. His shirt is somewhere in the bedroom. He doesn’t want to go back for it. “I hate you. I want you out of the apartment. I never want to see you again,” Dimitri spits out before he can stop himself. 

“Dimitri—” 

He leaves the apartment and slams the door behind him. 

**FRAGMENT 73**

Dimitri follows Sylvain into the forge. It’s just the two of them in the oppressive heat, their usual heavy cloaks and furs a detriment. But they won’t be in the desert long enough for it to matter, so they will just suffer until it’s time to leave. For now, they have to negotiate selling the gold and artefacts from the monastery. The raid itself was successful, and for that Dimitri is thankful. He had little doubt about that, however. He knows how to manage a sword and shield, knows how to keep his crew together. 

This part, though, is where his skills fall apart. He can speak his mother language and maybe a handful of words in other tongues, but the Byzatines are a multicultural people and he cannot communicate with most of them in a way that would work best. 

But Sylvain can. His clever eyes and witty remarks work in any place, and it is easy enough for him to locate a forge that works in gold from the north. 

“Do you have the samples?” Sylvain asks once more. Dimitri nods. “Good. I will do the talking, Chief, and the reward will be great.”

He does not have more time to talk because then one of the owners of the forge walks over. No, not one man. Two. One has a shaved head and a bushy beard, old scars across his knuckles. The other is younger, though it’s hard to gauge his age, with sharp green eyes that knock Dimitri back a step. 

Sylvain seems unaffected, launching into conversation in quick, rapid words that Dimitri cannot recognize. He doesn’t have the mind to care. His eyes are just for the other man, who remains quiet through the whole conversation. His hair is so pale that it looks like it could disappear into the air with too strong a beam of sunlight, but his skin is dark enough that Dimitri itches to draw on him in paint, if just to see how vibrant the colors could appear.

He is handsome, more so than any other man Dimitri has seen, and he thinks once more about the runes cast almost a month ago. 

_Beauty and war reversed and peace and prosperity joined — it did not make sense then, but perhaps I was not interpreting them correctly,_ Dimitri wonders. It is a bit presumptuous, but he is drawn to the stranger and he hopes that it is mutual. These thoughts fill his mind and, before he can even blink, the older man starts to move away. Sylvain does not follow, so Dimitri waits. So does the younger stranger.

Dimitri nudges Sylvain with his elbow. “Do you know their names?” 

“Eh?” Sylvain looks back at the young man and says something. Dimitri is smart enough to pick up when Sylvain gestures to the two of them and shares their name, the syllables rough versus the foreign language. After a moment, the man replies, pointing to himself.

“What did he say?” Dimitri asks, finding himself caring far more than he ever has about a stranger before. “What’s his name?”

“His name is Dedue and his father is—” The rest of Sylvain’s words fade away as Dimitri looks Dedue in the eyes once more. 

_Dedue_. It sounds familiar, though Dimitri cannot say why. He just knows that he needs to thank the gods for their good will, as this is nothing short of a miracle. 

**FRAGMENT 17,513**

Dimitri returns to the apartment to see that Dedue’s clothes are sitting in a suitcase in the living room. It’s half packed. Dimitri blinks at it. Nothing happens. It just sits there because it is a suitcase and, no matter what he wants, it cannot give him a reason to feel rage. 

All he can feel is emptiness. There’s a numb space in his chest because there can only be one reason that Dedue is packing. 

As if waiting for Dimitri to process what he is looking at, Dedue comes out of the bedroom. His eyes are red with tears. There’s silence. Dimitri can’t hear a car on the road. He can’t hear his heart in his chest. 

There is only Dimitri and Dedue and the half-full suitcase that sits between them. 

“What are you doing?” Dimitri asks even though he knows the answer. 

Dedue gestures to the suitcase. “Packing.” 

The first urge Dimitri has is to throw something. There’s nothing close enough to chuck, so instead he is forced to consider his second option. The second option is crying. The tears start pouring and Dimitri can’t stop them. 

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri sobs. 

Dedue doesn’t reply. He crosses the room and drops another shirt in the suitcase. It’s one of his college shirts. Dimitri didn’t even realize he still owned it. He can’t remember the last time he saw Dedue in it. 

He wants to say something, but all his mind is thinking about is trying to recall when Dedue got a commemorative _UCLA BOTANY BROS_ T-Shirt.

Dimitri still hasn’t said anything as Dedue goes back to their bedroom. It takes his presence leaving the room for Dimitri to snap out of it — he stumbles forward, all the air leaving his lungs. He can only rush after Dedue, catching himself on the doorframe. 

Everything is eerily neat. Dedue’s got a few different things laid out, the things that are technically his clothes but that Dimitri tends to wear more than him. There’s also his toothbrush, his various toiletries, his phone charger and laptop — everything is laid out in a perfect grid. Dedue always has been more organized. Dimitri loves that about him, has always loved how in control Dedue seems. 

There’s no limit to Dedue’s patience except for this moment, where Dimitri has finally found the breaking point and now everything is falling apart and there’s nothing he can do—

“I am sorry for not telling you,” Dedue says. He sets another pair of socks out. “I will return later for the rest of my things. Ashe is allowing me to stay on his couch.” 

“You don’t have to go,” Dimitri tells him. The words feel like dirt on his tongue. “I — I didn’t mean it.” That’s a lie. Dedue doesn’t even bother calling him out on it, just keeps emptying the drawers and his bedside table. “Dedue, you can’t leave me. What am I supposed to do without you? I — You can’t go.” 

Dedue stops. He looks at Dimitri. They’re both crying. Dedue is a quiet crier. You’d never know he was upset if you weren’t looking at him, but there is still snot over his face and tears in his eyes. He looks miserable. Dimitri can barely breathe. He wants to hold Dedue but he doesn’t want to touch another human being. Dimitri knows he needs to do something, but he doesn’t know _what_. 

How can Dimitri fix this when it’s his fault? 

“I can’t do this, Dimitri,” Dedue says, and it’s even worse than anything Dimitri could have imagined. “I can’t exist waiting for you to run away. If you need me to be gone, then that’s okay. I — I will be okay. This is for the best.” 

“I don’t want you to leave!” Dimitri shouts, slamming his hand against the wall. It shakes. There’s a framed picture of the two of them at the botanical gardens that sits on the dresser. It trembles and falls over, landing on the carpet with a muffled _thump_. 

“I don’t want to stay,” Dedue responds, tone frozen. “I love you, Dimitri. But I cannot stay.” Dedue gathers up the things on the bed. He’s a big man. The bed groans a bit under his weight. It creaks when he stands back up, arms full of his stuff. 

His eyes meet Dimitri’s. It strikes Dimitri, in that moment, that he’s blocking the door. If he really wants, he can stop Dedue from leaving. Would Dedue force the issue? Could Dimitri? He can’t imagine trying to prevent Dedue from doing anything. Even if it kills him, he knows that he can only stand and watch Dedue exit the room and his life. 

Snot drips down Dimitri’s nose. He rubs it with his sleeve, eyes not leaving Dedue. He loves Dedue’s eyes. He always had. He’s never really considered that there could be a future where he doesn’t see Dedue’s eyes again. 

“You’ll come back?” Dimitri asks, because there’s no other choice. When Dedue doesn’t respond, Dimitri repeats himself. Dedue shrugs. “I — I don’t want you to leave.” He doesn’t shout this time. He just sounds sad. Pathetic. 

“I know, but I must.” Dedue wipes at his face. “Dimitri, please let me pass.” 

And even though every nerve in Dimitri’s body is protesting, even though his mind screams at him not to move, he steps aside. Dedue walks by. He does not stop next to Dimitri, not even when their shoulders brush. Dimitri shadows him into the living room, lingering once more in the doorway as Dedue unceremoniously dumps his belongings into the suitcase. 

It is odd, seeing Dedue pack his life into a suitcase that’s about as old as he is. 

A car pulls up in the front, the lights shining through the windows. Dimitri doesn’t have to look, but he does — it’s a grey Honda, Ashe’s baby. He calls it Arrow, because it goes from place to place and has caused at least three counts of property damage. The dent in the front is from an accident that Dimitri still remembers from the Renaissance Festival. 

Dimitri has never wanted to see the car less. 

Dedue zips his suitcase up and then heads to the front door. He could be going on vacation, if it weren’t for the redness in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders. 

“Dedue, I — I love you,” Dimitri says as Dedue places his hand on the doorknob. There’s a moment. Maybe, now, Dedue will stop. Maybe he will put his things down and accept Dimitri’s apology. Then they can go to bed and pretend nothing bad ever happened. 

Then Dedue opens the door, steps outside, and closes it behind him with a soft _thump_. Dimitri falls to his knees and cries.

**FRAGMENT ∞**

Dimitri emerges from the water spitting fire, a burning sensation clawing at his stomach and throat. He looks up at where Sothis sits, cold and untouchable, on her stone throne. 

“I hate you,” he snarls. He can still feel the terrible sensation of earth consuming him, buried under rubble and ash as a monster lumbers past him. He can still see Dedue’s eyes, wide and green like seagrass, staring straight at him. 

Sothis shrugs. “You are the one who is failing.”

“You are the one doing this to us,” Dimitri retorts, crawling to his feet. He can feel water dripping off him but he doesn’t feel damp. It’s cold, but not bitterly so. He wishes it was. “If you are all-powerful, then why do you do nothing but watch and mock us? And you have the audacity to claim to do the will of my close friend. Byleth would never want this.” 

“Byleth was aware of the possibility of this happening. They just had faith in you. More faith than I.” Sothis sighs, tapping her fingers on her throne. “I don’t know why you are so upset. You can accept the misery at any time and end this or continue to fight. You are the one who continues this struggle. I show you the door. You keep walking through it.” 

Dimitri spits to the side. There is no resulting noise. He forces himself to breathe. In one life, he’s learnt all kinds of mediation. Didn’t stop him from snapping his own neck one day, pushed past the point of no return. 

“You can give up at any time, Dimitri. You do not need to keep fighting.” Sothis leans back. She laces her fingers together. In the light, she looks like a child and she looks like an ancient entity. “Some people are not meant for happiness.” She says it so certainly, like the sky is blue and water is wet and everything that rises must one day fall.

“I know that,” Dimitri replies, eyes downcast. The flames in his body are dying down to whispers. “I have never been so mad as to think that I deserve a happy ending.” 

“Then give up,” Sothis tells him. “Give up this farce. Stop struggling against this relentless tide and drowning in your devotion.” 

Dimitri clenches his fists. “I cannot.” 

Sothis raises an eyebrow. “No? Why not?” 

“If it were just me, I would end it. I do not pretend that I deserve a second chance, let alone thousands. But you have captured Dedue in this web, entangling his fate in mine. So until he can be happy, then I cannot give up.” Dimitri narrows his eyes. “I refuse to give up.” 

He is not sure how Sothis will respond, so he can only feel irate when she begins to laugh. She doubles over, clutching her throne for balance. Part of him wonders if she would be hurt by a fall or if she would catch herself with magic or wings. He wants to see what would happen, but isn’t sure he could approach the throne if he tried. 

“Do not laugh at my feelings towards Dedue,” Dimitri tells her instead. “You would not know the depths of my emotions. You live alone and will die alone.”  
  
“I will not die. You cannot say the same,” Sothis replies, wiping a tear from her eyes. “But you misunderstand. I do not mock your feelings. I mock your conviction. You act as if you can just _will_ things into existence.”

“And if you do not provide me with instructions, then what else am I supposed to do?” Dimitri kicks at the water. It splashes up, falling around him and sliding right off. “You tell me to solve the problem, to find my way out of this maze, but I cannot. I die and I die and I die. Do you think I enjoy this? I am trying to learn!” 

This half-freezes Sothis, her expression mixed annoyance and disgust. “Try harder, human. Who knows,” she says, settling down in her throne, “maybe your friend will have better luck.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ashes8012)!


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